La Danse Macabre
by marinoa
Summary: Their swords dance, it is the dance of death.


**La Danse Macabre**

_Klang!_

The sound of metal hitting metal echoes coldly. Sword meets sword. Eyes meet eyes, blue and green, interlocking, daring, threatening, warning; no mercy will be given.

Arthur stands proud,, his green eyes sharp and piercing. The sword in his hand is heavy, sharp, deadly. It fits his hand as if it was part of it, and he knows that in a battle man and his sword become one; they share the same will, the same desire, the same enemy.

Francis stands proud, his blue eyes deep and powerful. He holds his sword as if it was something precious, like his friend, brother in arms. He holds it almost gently, yet firmly. Ready. His sword is him; he knows what he wants and he knows what his sword wants: to taste the blood of the enemy.

Heavy, dark clouds are covering the sky. Cool breeze makes dead leaves dance around the two men, join their deadly dance of swords. No word is spoken; only sounds of swords hitting each other cuts the silence of cool autumn morning.

This hate, this terrifying hate. It burns like fire inside of them, it burns like the coldest ice. Yet coldest waters can't extinguish that fire, hottest flames are not able to melt the ice.

Swords dance.

The dance of death.

Arthur gasps for air, staring at the Frenchman in front of him; his worst enemy. His oldest, most fearful enemy. His closest enemy ever. He stares into his deep, blue eyes, seeing the same burning hate there that he feels himself. The same desire: the other one's blood.

Arthur steps forward. His whole body feel heavy and his arm that is holding the sword, aches, yet he can't rest. He knows it would be his end. Silently asking strength from his sword, Arthur rises it and thrusts, aiming to the Frenchman's heart.

Francis steps aside, blocking the sword with his own.. His muscles are burning but he ignores it, focusing on the Englishman's piercing eyes, gathering all his willpower into his gaze. He would not break. His sword stopped his enemy's attack, hard, not breaking, not bending in front of it, and Francis wouldn't give in, either. At that moment, he is one with his sword.

The wind gets stronger and colder, and suddenly the clouds let all the water that they are carrying fall down, fall on the two fighting men.

They break apart, not letting the other one turn his face away. Panting, they examine each other with their eyes, trying to dig deep into the other one's soul, trying to find even the slightest sign of weakness there. But the only weakness they can is just a reflection of what is in their own eyes.

Francis' hand clenches around the haft of his sword. His clothes are soaking, which makes them feel heavy and difficult to move in, and his hair is hanging around his face, dripping with water. Francis stares at the green-eyed man in front of him. He studies his proud appearance, determined face, slim body. This man in front of him has made him suffer. Oh, this horrible, burning hate! Francis hates him, hates with terrible power. In his dreams he kills this man over and over and over again. In his dreams he covers this man with kisses.

Francis stands still, even though his sword is yelling to be thrust into the soft flesh of the enemy. This man in front of him has given Francis' life a meaning.

Arthur fears he'll collapse at any minute. His sword, his clothes, even the raindrops seem to be strong enough to drag him down into mud. But he keeps his back straight, holding his sword high. He will not show his weakness. Not in front of the Frenchman. Arthur keeps staring at his horribly beautiful, merciless face. He feels the hate inside of him, strong and cruel. But under that hate, deep inside of him where no one else can see, he feels something else. Arthur hesitates and lowers his sword. Has that something always been there?

Blue eyes flash dangerously and in an instant Arthur rises his sword again. No time to think such matters, unless he wants to get killed. His eyes all the time in the dark blue ones, Arthur steps forward, taking a better hold of his sword. He doesn't know where the hate ends and love begins, but it doesn't matter anyway. The object of those two feelings, if they even are separate, is standing in front of him, attracting him, drawing him closer and closer. Arthur holds his sword ready.

_Kill or get killed._

Francis doesn't know what to do, if he wants neither of those possibilities to happen.

_Live and let live._

Arthur wonders if that could ever be possible with Francis. He rises his sword, puts all the strength that is left in him into that final blow, and strikes.

_Klang!_

The sound of swords meeting is louder than Arthur expects. Even though he is still looking into those enchanting, dangerous eyes of his enemy, he sees how the Frenchman's grip of the haft looses and how his sword falls to the wet, dirty grass. And just when Arthur thinks it's over, time to give the finishing blow, Francis' hand that was barely a moment ago holding the sword grabs his wrist and twists. Arthur lets out a small, surprised sound of pain and drops his sword, unable to maintain the hold of it.

That little sound that escapes Arthur's lips thrills Francis, thrills him more that anything has for a long time. He tightens the grip around the Englishman's wrist and places his other hand on his shoulder in order to drag him down to the ground. At the same time he feels how fingers grab his hair from behind and smirks; no swords, no shields, no armours – nothing to hide behind. He trips Arthur up and pushes him down. And whether he does so by accident or on purpose, Arthur pulls him closer with his hand that is tangled in golden, wet locks as he falls, drawing him down with him.

Somehow their mouths just smash together – Arthur doesn't know how it happens. One moment he falls, the other he founds himself from under the Frenchman, his _both_ hands in Francis' hair, their lips moving together, tongues fighting, teeth biting. The burning inside of Arthur has turned into flaming flames, and he knows that something has changed, that he needs those flames to go on, that only Francis can feed the hunger of them. Each and one of Arthur's senses is full of the Frenchman and screaming for more, more, _more._

Not coldest waters can extinguish the fire inside Francis, not hottest flames are able to melt the burning ice. But the burning is now somehow different, and Francis doesn't want it to fade away, doesn't want it to disappear. He tastes blood in his mouth and; is it his or Arthur's, he doesn't know, and he doesn't care. All that matters now is the Englishman beneath him, the reason why his life is worth living.

A long moan cuts through the cold air. Eyes meet eyes, blue and green, interlocking. Daring, threatening, promising. _Please me, hurt me, and I'll do the same for you..._ And warning; no mercy will be given.

X


End file.
